When I arrived home from Hy-Vee, rain-soaked and a little muddy from the potting soil, Steve looked at the gardening supplies, then back at me, then back at the supplies. "You look like Genie," he said.
"You sound like Genie."
He leaned in close to my cheek. "You even kind of smell like Genie," he said. "But you're clearly not Genie."
"I'm in Iowa," I said. "I felt like I should plant something."
I hauled my dirt around to the back of the house, and came inside to change out of my now-muddy church clothes. In the meantime, the drizzle abated, the sun came out, and in minutes, I had my plants potted. (Note to horrified gardeners: In a nod toward proper drainage, I pilfered a few rocks from the flower beds around our house and put them in the pots before the dirt.)
"That was really easy," I said when I came back inside. "I can't imagine what I was so worried about."
My mind began to race. If all it took was some potting soil and a few rocks, then why couldn't I do more of this? The basil and parsley could go into pots as soon as they showed up at a farmer's market or a local garden center. And beyond that, who knew? Could zucchini grow in pots? Peppers? Cucumbers? I had visions of dozens of pots scattered about our yard, yielding vegetables all summer long for salads and salsas and stir-fries and soups. With the world of container gardening stretching before me, it seemed useless to actually put anything in the ground.